Scars
by NightKitty666
Summary: House has always struggled with his leg. Ever since the injury, it has affected him every day. He usually finds a way to manage the pain, but what will happen when a particularly difficult case gets on top of him? Set at some point during season 1. House!Whump, House/Wilson friendship (possible slash later on), no House/Cuddy.
1. Chapter 1

**AN – Hey everybody, I'm back! I recently started watching House and am now completely hooked, so naturally the first thing I did was start writing fanfiction for it. I hope you enjoy this piece, I'm aiming for it to be a multi-chapter fic (5 or more I'd say) and I'll keep it updated as much as I can. There will be some definite House!Whump ahead, so don't like, don't read.**

 **Disclaimers: I don't own the show, the characters etc. Also, all medical phenomena referenced are at least partially researched, but please don't hold me to standards of complete accuracy. I'm doing my best, but plotline is more important to me than precision. Anyway, enough about me, on with the story!**

XXXXX

It had been an absolutely gruelling day. The team had been running back and forth between the patient's room and the lab for hours trying to isolate the disease causing a young woman's bizarre cocktail of symptoms, with very little success. Even House, who would ordinarily retreat to his office and leave his minions to carry out his bidding, was forced to join them in running tests, knowing that they were rapidly running out of time to save the woman's life and that everybody's involvement was needed.

After almost three days of working tirelessly, the team were eventually able to diagnose Lymphangioleiomyomatosis and put the woman on the transplant list in urgent need of a new lung, with help from Wilson and Cuddy. When news of a lung becoming available reached the diagnostics room, everyone was able to breathe a sigh of relief and could finally head home for some welcome rest.

As they were making their way towards the elevator, Wilson noticed that House was leaning heavily on his cane, his limp much more pronounced than usual. He turned to his friend in concern, knowing that the diagnostician had been on his feet for much longer than he was used to over the past few days and had probably aggravated his injury.

"House, are you okay?" he asked as they made their way along the corridor.

"Why wouldn't I be? The girl was saved, I was right, and Chase now owes me another 50 bucks," the doctor replied with his usual sarcastic grin.

"That's not what I meant. Your leg, is it hurting you?"

"My leg is always hurting me."

"More than usual? You look like you can barely walk."

"I'm fine, Wilson," House responded dismissively. "I've been popping Vicodin like tic-tacs, I can hardly feel it." But Wilson didn't miss the grimace of pain that flashed across his friend's face when he took another step. He knew it would scarcely be out of the ordinary for House to hide his pain; the man refused to give others a chance to feel sorry for him, and would always choose to brave it alone instead.

Before Wilson could say anything further, he was interrupted by Chase and Cameron as they appeared from around the corner.

"We've locked up the lab," Chase informed them, "nothing more to do here."

Cameron noticed that something was off between the older two doctors and asked, "is something the matter?"

"Nothing," House replied quickly. "We were just off to find some nice hookers." Not particularly in the mood for conversation, he turned and started shuffling towards the elevator, leaving the other three doctors watching him in confusion.

"Is it just me or is his leg…" Chase began, before he was hastily cut off by Wilson.

"Don't," the oncologist warned in a hushed tone, but he was not quiet enough to prevent House from hearing him.

"I may be a cripple, but I'm not deaf," the man shot back over his shoulder, still continuing to limp away as he did so.

Wilson sighed. "We're worried about you, House." He knew it would be futile to try and get a confession of pain out of his friend, but he was going to attempt it anyway.

House, as predicted, simply brushed the comment off. "For God's sake, there's nothing to be worried about," he replied in irritation. "I'm fine." But as soon as he had finished speaking, he took another step and collapsed.

XXXXX

House's leg had been screaming at him for days. He could feel what was left of his muscles rebelling against every movement, but he did his best to ignore it and carry on. Vicodin was barely touching the pain, so he had no choice but to try not to think about it, choosing to occupy himself instead with the puzzling diagnosis his team were working on.

When the case was finally concluded, he wanted nothing more than to go home, knock himself out with whatever medication he could find in his cabinet and sleep through the worst of the pain, but his colleagues seemed to be determined to badger him for as long as possible. Wilson in particular was unable to take the hint and drop the matter, so House decided to just walk away, desperate to be left alone. He was almost at the elevator when he felt fire shooting through his leg, the limb buckled and he fell to the floor.

Immediately, the other three doctors ran down the corridor towards their fallen colleague. House watched them approach through blurred vision, his head swimming, the hospital jumping about in front of him. "He's bleeding!" Cameron exclaimed, noticing a large gash on the back of House's head where it had impacted the floor.

"Are you sure you're fine?" teased Wilson as he knelt down to check the head wound. "Not too deep, you'll probably just have a nasty concussion for a few days. As for your leg…" He moved his hands over House's mangled thigh, but withdrew them quickly when the action elicited a cry of pain. "We'll need to…"

"Inject morphine into the spine," House finished for him. "I know. I went to medical school." He gritted his teeth as another wave of pain ran through his leg. "Do it quickly."

Cameron hurried off down the hall to retrieve the morphine, while Wilson and Chase manoeuvred House onto his side and pulled up his shirt to prepare for the injection. House was practically screaming as he was rolled over, not knowing how much more of the pain he could take before he passed out. As he lay on the cold floor, he could see darkness creeping in at the corner of his vision, threatening to drag him down into unconsciousness, but before he could succumb, the world was rapidly brought back into focus by the sharp stab of a needle into his spine. He cried out in protest, clenching his fist tightly at his side as the needle was pushed into his spinal canal. He felt the morphine flooding into his system, destroying the last of his strength. No longer able to fight to stay conscious, he closed his eyes and passed out.

Chase swore under his breath as he saw House's head fall back and loll against the floor, clearly unconscious. "He's out. What do we do with him?"

"We'll have to book him in," replied Cameron. "There's no way we can take him home in this condition."

"He'll be so thrilled," Wilson muttered. "Alright, let's get him up to the inpatient ward. Put him on oxygen, IV morphine, saline, the works. Give him the full dose of morphine. His leg will be in spasm for days, let's try and get him to sleep through most of that."

"You know he'd kill us if he knew we were doing this for him," Chase commented.

Wilson smiled at the truth of that statement. "Well, let's be glad he's unconscious." He rose from the floor and glanced around, trying to see if there were any orderlies about to help them move House to the ward. Unable to see anyone in the dimly lit halls, he sighed, realising that almost all the hospital staff would have gone home for the evening. Rather than running around trying to find the few people who were left, it would be easier to transport House themselves. "Right then, let's get moving. Chase, Cameron, see if you can find a gurney. I'll wait here, make sure no one tramples him in the dark."

The younger doctors nodded before hurrying off towards the supply room down the corridor, hoping it would contain what they needed. As he watched them go, Wilson knelt down again beside House, worried by his friend's ashen complexion. The diagnostician's injury causing him pain was hardly new, but it rarely affected him to this extent. Wilson was concerned that there might be a more serious problem at the root of all of this, though he wouldn't know until he'd had time to run some tests.

As he started theorising about the possible cause of House's problems, his thoughts were interrupted by Chase and Cameron returning with a gurney in tow. They removed the backboard and placed it on the ground next to House, gently rolling the doctor onto it and strapping him down before lifting him onto the trolley. Wilson helped them wheel the gurney into the elevator and up to the inpatient ward, where they carefully transferred House into a bed and began hooking him up to all the necessary equipment. Finally, once their work was completed, they were able to step back and observe their handiwork. House's pulse monitor was beeping away steadily, his heartrate slightly elevated but regular, and the nasal cannula was supplying him with a continuous flow of oxygen. The IVs attached to his arms dispensed the morphine required to keep him unconscious while the worst of the pain ebbed, alongside a host of other vital fluids. Satisfied that there was nothing more to be done at present, the doctors decided that it was time for them to go home at last, craving some much-needed rest. As Wilson was heading out of the ward, he stopped by the nurses' station, leaving the nurse on duty with strict instructions to keep an eye on his valued friend and colleague.

 **AN – I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter, please let me know what you thought of it. Reviews are my food! There will be more chapters up soon, I have several ideas for where I want to go with this story so hopefully it won't take too long to write Chapter 2. See you soon, my friends!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN – Here's Chapter 2! I hope that you like it, you can look forward to much more House!Whump as I'm a huge fan of making characters sick/injured for maximum amount of feels. Enjoy!**

 **Thank you all for my reviews, and a special shout out to KKBK2 for your kind comment. I was really worried about whether my dialogue was OOC, so it was great to hear that you think it's okay. I hope you like what I've done in this chapter.**

XXXXX

The next few days dragged on with little change in House's condition. As he lay unconscious in his hospital bed, his heart beat steadily on, pulse rapid but consistent, his vitals stable. His team, though they were kept busy by the need to run diagnostics in House's place, insisted on checking in on him as often as their schedules would allow. Even Foreman, who had a conspicuous disliking for House, made sure to visit his superior as soon as he heard the news of what happened, and kept himself updated on the man's status over the following days. Although he disagreed with House's rude and arrogant treatment of his colleagues, he would not have wished such severe pain on him, and wanted to help keep House as comfortable as possible.

While the diagnostics team frequently visited House's room to check his stats and change his IV lines, it was Wilson who was by far the most attentive. He was constantly hovering around the room, anxious to see any improvement in House's condition. His fingers were itching to unplug the morphine as soon as possible and reduce the likelihood of House getting addicted to yet another drug; he knew he often acted as an enabler for the diagnostician's addictions, and was reluctant to let that happen again.

Every hour, Wilson would run his hands over House's injury, trying to inspect the condition of the muscles. Every time, his heart would sink as he felt them continuing to spasm beneath his fingertips. The spasms were decreasing in intensity, but not enough that he could risk reducing the painkillers.

Eventually, on the third day of House's induced rest, Wilson was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he carried out his routine inspection and discovered House's thigh muscles to be sitting calmly beneath the skin. Not wasting any time, he immediately adjusted the morphine to a lower dose, then moved over to the chair next to the bed and sat down, waiting for his friend to wake up. He didn't want House to be alone when he finally came around.

Wilson was almost dozing off when a slight twitch of House's hand caught his attention. He looked up just in time to see House's eyes opening slowly, blinking several times before looking around the room to take in his surroundings. He seemed confused at first, unable to make sense of where he was, but then his gaze fell on Wilson and a small smile appeared on his face.

"Welcome back," Wilson greeted softly.

"You look awful," were House's first words, his signature teasing smirk lighting up his face.

Wilson chuckled. "That's supposed to be my line." He paused before adding, "how do you feel?"

"Like I collapsed in a hallway," House responded, deadpan. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I can't feel my leg. You didn't cut it off, did you?" His tone was mostly teasing, but with a hint of fear underneath.

"Don't worry, everything's still there that's supposed to be. Well, aside from your liver and kidneys, we took those out to sell on the black market, but your leg's fine," Wilson replied with a playful smile.

House laughed softly, feeling a weight being lifted off his chest as he realised that no one had tried to amputate him again. Seeing his closest friend sat by his side, it reassured him that he was in good hands. He usually preferred to handle all of his own medical issues by himself, not trusting anyone else to do it as well as he could, but he decided this time to relent and allow Wilson to help him.

The two doctors sat in silence for several minutes, before House broke it as his usual curiosity flared up. "So," he began, "any good cases come through while I was out?"

"Nothing too interesting. The usual maladies coming through the clinic, and only one new patient in your department. Your team are working on it at the moment, in fact."

"What are the symptoms?" House asked immediately, his face becoming serious as his brain began to speed through all the options he could be presented with.

Wilson gave House a warning glare. "I'm not going to tell you. House, you're lying in a hospital bed. It's time for you to be the patient, not the doctor. Leave your team to handle this, you just focus on getting some rest."

"But mom!" House whined, causing Wilson to roll his eyes. House knew there was no point in pressing the matter, as Wilson could be surprisingly strict with those under his care. Instead, he let his head fall back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling as his vision began to blur slightly. As much as he wanted to deny it, Wilson was right about him needing rest. The morphine still coursing through his system was causing his head to feel fuzzy, his usually sharp mind dulled slightly. A wave of fatigue rolled over him, and he closed his eyes against it, trying his best to stay focused.

Wilson noticed House's sudden struggle to stay awake and realised that the effects of the morphine were catching up with him. He leaned forward and placed a hand gently on House's arm, being careful to avoid the sites where the cannulas were attached. The diagnostician opened his eyes at the contact and looked over at his friend. Wilson smiled softly. "You should get some sleep," he advised.

House scoffed. "I've been asleep for what I assume has been days. I'm fine."

"You know I no longer believe you when you say that," Wilson teased. "But seriously, you've had a lot of morphine. It'll take some time for the drowsiness to wear off, you should get as much rest as you can until you're feeling stronger."

Sighing resentfully, House knew he had to consent. As much as he enjoyed ignoring the opinions of other doctors, he had to admit that sleep sounded very appealing right now. "Fine," he said grudgingly. "But you better not start chopping bits off me while I'm asleep."

Wilson nodded. "That seems like a fair deal. Goodnight, House."

"It's the middle of the day," House pointed out pedantically after glancing at the clock on the wall.

"You know what I mean. Go to sleep," was Wilson's exasperated reply.

House nested his head into the pillow and closed his eyes once more. He felt the drowsiness overtaking him within minutes and it wasn't long before he was out like a light.

 **AN – So what did you think? I know this is a shorter chapter, but hopefully the next one will be longer as there's a new issue I'm going to explore. Spoiler alert, it's going to be even more House!Whump. See you all soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN – Hi everyone, here's Chapter 3! As promised, it has even more House-feels, mostly based on ideas borrowed from the show. I hope you enjoy.**

 **To KKBK2: I completely agree, Wilson and House have a strange but unbreakable bond. As many times as House is rude/inconsiderate towards Wilson, Wilson will always come back and be at House's side when he needs him. It's very touching to see the loyalty between them and it's a lot of fun to write their scenes. I hope you like what I've done in this chapter.**

 **To Rhastahippy: Wilson will definitely be there to keep an eye on House, he knows how to balance doing what is medically necessary with respecting his friend's wishes. And I know what you mean, House!Whump can be great to read but can also be stressful with all the feels! Hopefully this story isn't too much!**

XXXXX

It was several hours before House woke again. While he was asleep, Wilson was called away to perform a patient examination, so when House finally opened his eyes, he saw that he was alone in the room. Sitting up slightly, he experimentally shifted his leg, causing the muscles to begin to ache. He could tell that the injury was still tender, but his senses were being dulled by the painkillers in his system, for which he was extremely grateful.

A quick glance at the clock told him that he had had a decent amount of sleep, but his head was still clouded with fatigue. Settling back down into the bed, he reached out to take a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand, but as he did so, he found that his hand was trembling violently. He let out a small groan as he immediately worked out the cause, knowing these symptoms better than any other.

Before he could dwell on his diagnosis, he was distracted by the door to his room being slid open. Expecting his best friend to be coming back to check on him, he was surprised to see that it was in fact Chase who stepped through the doorway.

"I heard you were awake. How are you feeling?" the young doctor asked, grabbing House's medical chart and flicking through it before turning his attention to his superior.

"You took me off the Vicodin," was House's reply, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Chase looked confused at the odd and indirect response. "Of course we did," he said cautiously. "Are you experiencing withdrawal symptoms?"

"No, I feel the happiest I've ever been," he shot back sarcastically. Glancing around the room to check that a pill bottle hadn't been left on his nightstand, he added, "where's my jacket?"

Chase knew that House kept a supply of Vicodin handy in his jacket pocket, so he immediately denied the request. "House, I'm not letting you have Vicodin. You can't overlap it with the morphine."

"Why not?"

"You're a doctor, you know why!" Chase was getting a little frustrated by House's childish behaviour.

"Yes, but still," House whined. "Two painkillers are always better than one. It's like hookers, the more the better."

The younger doctor sighed. "Do you want it because of your leg or your addiction?" he questioned in an exasperated tone.

House paused. "Can it be both?"

"If your leg's hurting, I can increase the morphine for you. If you only want it to avoid withdrawal then you're just going to have to live with the effects for now. Those are the rules."

"Oh, of course, we must always follow the rules," the diagnostician replied snidely.

"House, I know you're technically my boss, but right now you're my patient, so I get the final say as to what treatment is given to you. You can protest all you want, it won't change anything."

House was in the process of coming up with a witty retort when a wave of nausea rolled over him. He was forced to close his eyes and concentrate on not throwing up, a behaviour that Chase immediately noticed. "House, are you okay?" he inquired cautiously.

"Yeah," House replied quickly, not trusting himself to be able to speak for too long without vomiting.

Chase observed the way House's hand momentarily settled on his stomach and concluded that it was the withdrawal-induced nausea causing this reaction, not the leg pain. In anticipation of what was coming, he asked, "are you going to be sick?"

"No," responded House firmly.

"Are you sure?"

There was a pause before House answered, "no." Chase saw House's stomach convulse and he instantly reached out for the sick bowl on the nightstand, only just managing to pass it to House before the diagnostician emptied the contents of his stomach. After he was finished, he wiped his mouth and embarrassedly placed the bowl back on the nightstand, picking up his glass to have a drink of water. "Thanks," he said weakly as Chase disposed of the bowl.

"Don't worry, I've seen worse," Chase reassured with a smile. "Look, I wish I could help you with the withdrawal effects, but you know that there's nothing we can do right now."

House nodded slowly. "I know," he replied in a resigned tone. Having lost all energy to fight, he didn't even bother to think of a sarcastic comment to respond with. He would never admit this to Chase, but at that moment, he felt awful. His stomach was churning, every one of his muscles was trembling, and with each passing second, he could feel the pain in his leg beginning to rise. All he wanted was for the young doctor to leave so that he could feel sorry for himself in private.

Before House had a chance to ask him to go, Chase's pager began to beep, and he removed it from his belt to read the display. "It's Foreman," he informed House. "They need me to help run some tests. Are you going to be okay here?"

The diagnostician breathed a sigh of relief as he replied, "I'll be fine. Go help Foreman." Watching thankfully as Chase bid him goodbye and made his way out of the room, he was elated to finally be left in peace.

Once he was alone, he began glancing around to find something to keep himself occupied, but discovered that there was little of interest in the room. He settled back down onto the bed and stared mindlessly at the lights in the ceiling, the faint rhythm of his pulse monitor being the only sound he could focus on. Feeling a sudden flare of pain in his leg, he quickly reached over and moved the slider on his morphine drip to increase the dose, trusting himself to be able to self-medicate safely. As the drug made its way through his system, he could feel the familiar fog returning, clouding his mind as it had before. It wasn't enough to put him to sleep, but it caused him to start dissociating, and he soon fell into what felt like a dream-like state.

The beeping of the heart monitor filtered through the haze into his thoughts, and he found himself absentmindedly tapping his hand down onto the bed, matching the rhythm of his heart. As he continued to lose awareness of what was happening around him, the strength of the tapping increased, until he was pounding his fist into the mattress. He was barely aware of what he was doing, so it came as a shock to him when he brought his hand down and immediately felt a stabbing pain shoot through his wrist. The force of the pain sent his mind snapping back into reality, and he looked over to see that he had missed the mattress and had instead managed to crack his wrist on the metal bedframe. Cursing at himself, he reached over with his good hand and pressed the emergency call button on his bedside, knowing that he would need some help to sort this out.

Within minutes, a nurse appeared in the room, looking slightly flustered as she approached him. He held up his wrist to show her the problem, wincing as he saw it hanging at an awkward angle and knew that it was broken. "I… had a problem," he explained vaguely.

The nurse, having worked with House before, knew better than to ask him how it happened, so she simply said, "we'll need to take you in for an x-ray."

"Yeah, I've heard that's what you're supposed to do when someone's bone gets split in half," House retorted. The nurse merely rolled her eyes and left the room, scribbling notes on her clipboard as she walked away.

It took almost an hour before the nurse returned to wheel him off to the x-ray suite. His wrist was placed on the imaging plate and scanned, then he was returned to his room and had his injured hand wrapped up in plaster. He lay there staring at the ceiling, the pain from the break radiating up his arm as it was carefully secured in a cast. When the nurse had finished, and he was left unsupervised in the room once more, he immediately turned up his morphine again, determined to take the edge off the pain. This time, he made sure to give himself enough to put him properly to sleep, and it didn't take long before he passed out.

XXXXX

When House finally came around, the first thing he became aware of was that there was someone in his room. Even before he'd opened his eyes, he could hear the faint sounds of someone moving around, and it didn't take him long to figure out who it was. Cracking one eye open just a small amount, he confirmed that it was Wilson who was pacing around by his bedside, and quickly shut his eye again, feigning sleep. He didn't particularly want to explain the broken wrist to his friend right now.

However, his actions weren't subtle enough to evade detection, and before he could fall back asleep, he heard Wilson saying, "House, I know you're awake."

"No I'm not," he replied, annoyed that he was unable to fool his friend.

"Don't try to play games with me," Wilson shot back sternly, and House opened his eyes, startled by the other man's harshness. It was unlike Wilson to act so irritated when he was with a patient. The oncologist glanced down at House's cast and asked, "want to tell me what happened?"

"I… don't know," House admitted.

"You don't know?" Wilson responded incredulously.

"Yeah," confirmed House. "I was high on morphine, I have no idea how I did it."

"House, you've got to stop this. You're already lying in a hospital bed, do you have to keep making yourself even worse?"

"It's not like I did it on purpose! Look…" House began to lift his good hand to gesticulate, but found that he couldn't raise it off the bed. Glancing down, he saw that he had been restrained, his wrists strapped down to the bedframe. Tugging on the restraints, he glared at Wilson. "Are you kidding?"

"Well, what did you expect? It's standard practice when a patient starts to self-destruct. If you want us to trust you, you have to stop acting like an idiot."

House scoffed. "Quite a bedside manner you have." He paused before adding in a more serious tone, "Look, Wilson, I'm tired, everything hurts, and I just want to be left alone. Why are you still here?"

"Because…" Wilson's expression softened slightly. "I'm worried about you, House."

House didn't have an immediate response to that. He was about to mock Wilson's sensitivity, but when he saw the amount of concern in his colleague's eyes, he thought better of it, realising that Wilson was only trying to do the right thing and look out for his friend. In all honesty, House knew that he had been reckless and that he probably deserved Wilson's criticism, but he was not about to admit as such. Instead, he settled on a middle ground and said, "I'm sorry, Wilson. I didn't mean to worry you."

Wilson, surprised to receive a genuine apology from House, decided that that was the best response he was going to get from the diagnostician and chose not to push the matter any further. "It's okay. Just try not to do any more stupid things," he joked, drawing a smile from House. Wilson moved over to sit in the chair next to House's bed, extracting a pack of playing cards from his lab coat as he did so. "I'm on a break right now, fancy a game of poker?" House smirked as Wilson untied his good hand so that he would be able to play.

"Bring it on."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN – I'm back! I've been suffering from chronic writers' block, so I apologise for taking so long to write this chapter. Hopefully it'll speed up in the future.**

 **To KKBK2: I agree that medically it is unrealistic, but I needed to put this in for plot reasons (which will come up soon), so I hope that you can overlook the inaccuracy. In terms of the spasm, at the moment they are only treating the symptoms, but maybe soon they'll start investigating the cause. You'll find out in the next few chapters!**

 **To OldSFfan: House is usually self-destructive, so I'm sure his colleagues aren't too surprised, but I did also want to include some Sympathetic!Wilson so I needed to put in a lot of House!Whump. I hope you like what I've done in this chapter.**

XXXXX

It was early evening by the time the doctors finished playing poker. Wilson would never admit this to House, but he'd rearranged his appointments for the afternoon so that he could keep an eye on his friend. House had, of course, figured this out for himself, but he chose to save his friend's pride and remain silent on the matter.

Wilson had realised that it was time to stop their card games when he saw that House was struggling to keep his eyes open. As he took the deck and slid it back into its case, House gave him an affronted glare. "What are you doing? I was winning," he protested.

"House, you're falling asleep," Wilson replied gently.

"Am not," was House's petulant response, but he knew that Wilson was right. The fatigue had once again resumed its grip on his mind and the idea of succumbing to it seemed very appealing.

"It's late," Wilson insisted. "You should get some rest, and I need to go home. Will you be alright until the morning?"

House rolled his eyes at his friend's overconcern for him. "I'm not a baby, Wilson, I don't need you to read me a bedtime story. I'll be fine."

The oncologist gave a small smile, relieved that House seemed to be acting his usual sarcastic self. He was about to make his way to the door when he paused, his smile disappearing as he remembered something he had to do. Turning back to the bed, he leaned down and carefully gripped House's wrist, manoeuvring it across the bed and wrapping the strap around it, securing the buckle to restrain House's arm. He could feel House's disapproving stare following him throughout the process, but the diagnostician remained silent, knowing that Wilson already knew of his condemnation of the protocol and that his friend would still abide by it anyway. When it was finished, he gave an experimental tug on his restraints, checking to see how much freedom he'd been afforded, which wasn't much. He let out a frustrated sigh.

"Well there go my plans to run off and join the circus during the night," he complained mockingly. "Are these really necessary? It's not like I'm a suicide risk!"

"You may not be a suicide risk, but you're still a risk. We don't want you breaking something else in a fit of stupidity."

"You know it wasn't stupidity. I'm not an idiot, Wilson. It was the drugs. Actually, the lack of drugs. Either way, it wasn't on purpose! I lost control, it's like my arm was spasming and I wasn't even aware of it!" House paused as the words looped around his brain. It was like a light had momentarily switched on in his head, like an idea had flashed across his mind, but it was gone before he could catch hold of it.

Wilson could see the cogs turning behind House's eyes and asked, "is everything okay?"

House returned his focus to Wilson, giving up on chasing the thought when it was clearly not going to come back any time soon. "Yeah, just… thinking. Anyway, goodnight, Wilson." He was suddenly anxious to be alone, wanting some time in solitude to ruminate on what the lightbulb in his head had been trying to tell him.

"Goodnight, House," Wilson replied, sensing his friend's desire to be alone. He walked swiftly to the doorway and left, leaving House in secluded contemplation.

As House lay back in his bed, he started bouncing ideas around in his head. The flash of understanding had occurred as he was reviewing his own condition, so he started by running a differential diagnosis on himself. He was trying to visualise a whiteboard full of his symptoms when he felt the fatigue hitting him with a greater force than it had before, and, while he tried to fight it, it wasn't long before he was unwillingly dragged down into sleep.

XXXXX

House was enjoying a rather pleasant hooker-related dream when a high-pitched whine began to filter into his brain. He tried to dismiss it, wanting to focus instead on the beautiful woman in front of him, but it persisted, growing louder by the moment. Then, he heard a distant but immediately recognisable voice, shouting in a familiar Australian twang, "clear!"

He felt a bolt of lightning flash through him and was instantly roused from him dream, opening his eyes to see the blurry outline of several doctors clustered around his bed. He could hear a frantic beeping from somewhere in the room and realised in dismay that it was his heart monitor.

"He's still tachy!" a female voice cried, and the whine began to increase again.

"Clear!" repeated the Australian voice, before House felt another jolt of electricity running through him.

As he lay there in stunned silence, he could just make out someone declaring, "back to sinus rhythm!". The announcement was a relief to him as he realised that there wouldn't be any more shocks administered to his body, but this quickly turned to concern as he worried why his heart had gone into fibrillation.

Before he could ponder the issue for much longer, he felt a hand on his shoulder gently shaking him and trying to get his attention. He looked up and focussed his eyes to see Chase, Cameron and a host of nurses crowded around him.

"Is it my birthday?" he joked sarcastically.

"You had an episode of severe tachycardia," explained Chase, ignoring his boss' usual mocking attitude. "We had to use the defib paddles to stabilise your heart."

"Using a defibrillator to stop fibrillation? Hmm, I think I've read about that somewhere," House continued his sarcasm. "Do other hospitals know about this?"

"House," Cameron stepped forward, interrupting the diagnostician. "You know what this means. It means something's wrong, and we have to figure out what before the symptoms get even worse."

"Well, I'm having problems with my heart, so why don't you start by scanning my left pinky?" sighed House, rolling his eyes as he spoke. "Order an ECG, echo and MRI and give me the results as soon as they come in." He paused before adding, "and bring me a whiteboard."

He watched as his team dispersed to carry out his request. Leaning back in his bed, he began mulling over his symptoms, continuing his differential diagnosis from the night before, all while trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his chest from where he'd been touched by the paddles. He knew the after-effects of being shocked would wear off quickly, but at that moment he felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a very angry horse.

Before he could get very far in his differential, his thoughts were interrupted when Chase returned to his room with an ECG machine to begin the test he'd ordered. The electrodes were attached all over House's body and the machine was calibrated to take the required measurements. House barely noticed the test being carried out, his thoughts preoccupied by pondering the unusual progression of his condition.

It wasn't until Chase spoke that he broke out of his contemplation. "You've got an atrial fibrillation," the younger man declared solemnly, his eyes scanning the rows of waves coming from the electrodes.

"That explains the tachycardia," replied House, his brain whirring to process this information.

"House, you know as well as I do what this means," Chase sighed, turning to face his boss.

House nodded. "I do. It means that there's something a lot worse than Vicodin withdrawal going on."

 **So that's chapter 4! Let me know what you think. I'm hoping to address the problems in the previous chapters about the realism of what happened to House, but it'll take a few more chapters to build up to that. So stay tuned for the big reveal!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN – Hello guys, I'm back with another chapter! It's exam season at the moment, so my updates might be a little slower than usual, but I hope to keep going with this story as much as I can and then return to it properly over summer.**

 **To KKBK2 – Yes, House couldn't stay away from diagnostics for long! They're going to start investigating the cause of the heart problems, which could lead on to other things, but you'll have to wait and see! Enjoy the new chapter!**

XXXXX

Over four hours had passed before House finally looked up from the whiteboard. He had been staring at it for too long, the words shakily written across it losing all meaning to him. At first it had been a rush. He'd been delighted to have had a new project, something to break up the monotony of lying in his bed surrounded by the same four walls for days. He loved a puzzle, especially when it didn't involve having to deal with any of the usual sort of patients. It was infuriating to spend his time untangling their lies rather than working on their diagnosis, but finally he had a case which eliminated all that. Until he got stuck. Now, he was feeling drained, his mind unable to process anything new as he mulled the information over for the thousandth time.

He glanced back down at the board in his lap, spinning the marker around in his hand absentmindedly as he ran his eyes over the list of symptoms again.

 _MUSCLE SPASMS_

 _TREMORS_

 _NAUSEA_

 _TACHYCARDIA_

 _ATRIAL FIBRILLATION_

The words hadn't changed since he'd first scribbled them down hours ago, yet he knew there was something they had yet to tell him. There was something missing, he just had no idea what it was, and that irritated him immensely.

Realising a sigh of frustration, he threw the pen towards the foot of his bed, tossing the whiteboard after it in annoyance. He ran a hand wearily over his face, but paused when he found his skin wet to the touch. Pulling his hand away, he was relieved to see it was not blood, and instead he discovered that his forehead was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. This surprised him, as he actually felt a little chilled rather than warm, so he reached over to the nurses' instrument tray which had been left by his bedside and grabbed the thermometer, sliding it out of its casing and placing it under his tongue. After a minute, he removed it from his mouth and turned it over to check the reading.

"Huh," he muttered, seeing that his temperature was in fact 102°. He hastily pushed himself up on the bed and leaned forward to retrieve the whiteboard and pen, his fingers straining to close around the objects, which were just out of reach. He struggled to lean further, the action causing a twinge of pain in his injured thigh, but before he could achieve his goal, a voice interrupted him from the doorway.

"Need a hand?" House looked over to see Wilson leaning against the doorframe, a small smirk on his face as he watched House's struggle.

"No thanks, I got this," House retorted condescendingly, returning immediately to what he was doing.

"Here, let me get it," Wilson insisted, moving over to the bed to pick up the whiteboard. As he was handing it over to House, he glanced quickly at the writing scrawled across it, barely able to make out a word it said. "Can you actually read this?" he mocked as House grabbed the board from his grip.

"I had to use my left hand," defended House, lifting his bandaged right hand to prove his point. He then uncapped the pen Wilson offered him and added ' _FEVER_ ' to his list, not in the mood to banter as he usually would and choosing instead to return to his work.

Wilson picked up on House's preoccupation with his task and decided not to hassle him on it. He knew how seriously House took his diagnoses, so it was no surprise to him that the man was getting wrapped up in this one. He glanced over House's shoulder and watched as he added the latest symptom to his list. "Fever?" He was slightly confused, House had never complained of a fever before.

"New," was House's hasty reply.

"How high?"

"102." House paused, running his eyes over the collection of symptoms once more. "I'm missing something, Wilson."

Wilson studied the list more carefully, trying to decipher his friend's shaky handwriting. His brow furrowed as he took in the symptoms and struggled to think of an explanation, experiencing the same puzzled feeling that House had been having for hours. "It's not an infection," reasoned Wilson, "the fever would have come on earlier." He stopped for a moment, before adding, "I thought the muscle spasms were caused by your long shift when you were working on that patient?"

House shrugged dismissively. "Can't rule anything out," he replied. "They lasted longer than usual, it might be connected. As I always tell my patients, they shouldn't withhold any information because they think it's irrelevant, it's up to me to decide what's relevant or not." He spun the pen around between his fingers absentmindedly, a thousand ideas running through his mind but none of them being realistic enough to stick. "I can't think in this room," he said abruptly. "I've been in here for days, I need to get out."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? Your heart almost stopped this morning, I think you should stay where we can keep an eye on you." Wilson was trying to be the voice of reason, knowing how irresponsible House could be if left unchecked.

"Or you could come with me," House suggested, his tone patronizing as if it was the most obvious solution in the world.

"I have work to do!" Wilson protested. "I can't run around being your chaperone."

"Come on, just for an hour," House tried to persuade him. He could see the hesitation on Wilson's face and continued, "You can take a long lunch. I need to get out of this bed, Wilson, I'm going crazy."

As much as Wilson wanted to say no, he could tell how much it would help House to have a respite from his constant bedrest. He sighed, before reluctantly agreeing to his friend's request. "Fine. But only an hour. I have consultation reports to finish." He was about to pass House his cane, which had been propped up in the corner of the room, before remembering his injured hand and rethinking his plan. "Wait there, I'll be back in a minute." He hurried to the door and disappeared down the corridor before House could ask where he was going. House rolled his eyes before glancing around the foyer outside, nosey to see if anything stimulating was going on. All he could see was a patient pacing around, a young man who seemed to be getting argumentative with the nurses who were advising him to sit down, and House was just starting to become interested in the spectacle when Wilson returned, entering his room with a wheelchair in tow.

"Your chariot, sire," Wilson smirked as he rolled the wheelchair over to the bedside, locking down the brakes as soon as it was in the right position. He quickly transferred House's IV bags from the static stand to the one on the back of the wheelchair, then flipped up the side panel on the bed so that House could swing his legs over the side. As House began to do just that, he was halted by a sharp pain shooting up his thigh, the muscles beginning to tremble once again beneath the skin. He instinctively reached out to cradle the injured limb, but only succeeded in hitting his cast against his leg, causing the pain to flare even more. This was noticed by Wilson immediately, who reached out to support House's leg, seeing that the diagnostician was unable to do it himself in his current state.

"Thanks," House said weakly, his voice coming out agonised between his gritted teeth. Between them, they were able to manoeuvre House off of the bed and into the chair; it wasn't the most graceful House had ever looked, hopping around whilst clutching onto Wilson, but he managed to make it down into the chair without falling, which he counted as a success.

Once he was seated, Wilson took up his position behind the wheelchair and began pushing it towards the door. "Where do you want to go?" he asked over House's shoulder.

"How about Texas? I hear it's lovely there this time of year."

"House."

"Fine." House thought for a minute. His plan had been to get out of the room, he hadn't really come up with a destination, so he took a moment to run through his options. He considered heading towards his office, knowing it would afford him a decent space to work, but a nearby vending machine caught his eye and he realised what he would value above all else: some real food. "Cafeteria," he answered decisively. "I'm starving."

"Cafeteria it is," affirmed Wilson, and began pushing House towards the elevator.

XXXXX

House grinned as he looked down at the pile of food on the plate in front of him. He'd been stuck eating the garbage they called patient meals for days, so he was ecstatic to finally have something to eat that didn't taste like boiled cardboard. Wilson was hardly surprised when House had chosen the steak, knowing how much he enjoyed it, and was even less surprised when House had once again managed to stick him with the bill for his meal. "But I'm sick," had been House's excuse, said with his usual mock pout, and Wilson hadn't even bothered to argue, knowing it wouldn't do any good anyway.

As the two men sat opposite each other at the table, House began enthusiastically tucking into his food, but his mood fell when his mind returned yet again to his current problem and he was reminded that he was still no closer to a solution. Wilson could see the frustration on his friend's face and didn't have to guess what it was about. "Still stuck?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"I can think of 100 conditions that present with these symptoms," House complained, "but none that would appear this quickly!"

He sighed deeply, his gaze darting around the cafeteria as he searched desperately for some sort of clue. He hated being stuck and refused to let this challenge beat him. As his eyes flicked from table to table, his attention was caught by a man rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, a pained expression on his face.

"You alright?" he could hear the man's friend ask him.

"Yeah, my back's just playing up again," was the stranger's response. House didn't hear what he said after that, his mind preoccupied as a thought unexpectedly flashed across it. Wilson saw House's face contort into an expression of deep concentration, his eyes unfocussed as he became lost in his own musings. Suddenly, his expression changed into one of understanding, and Wilson knew he'd finally had an idea.

"Unless…" House started. "What if it's not acute? What if it's chronic?"

"What? I thought you said that didn't fit," Wilson replied in confusion.

House brought a fist down onto the table. "God, I was being such an idiot. It's been there the whole time!" He looked up at Wilson, a satisfied smirk settling over his face. He didn't even bother to keep the pride out of his tone as he said gloatingly, "I know what it is."

 **And there it is! So House has finally figured out what's going on, or at least he thinks he has, but what is this answer he's suddenly come up with? You'll have to wait 'til next time to find out! See you then!**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN – Here's Chapter 6! Hopefully my updates will speed up soon, as I'm nearing the end of my exams, and I think there will be at least another couple of chapters after this so don't forget to keep tuned in!**

 **To momsboy: Thank you! I hope you like this latest chapter.**

 **To OldSFfan: Hopefully this is soon enough, I'm doing my best to update quickly!**

 **To KKBK2: Agreed, he loves solving his diagnostic puzzles and I hope that I did his focus justice in the last chapter. And thank you, luckily they're almost over!**

XXXXX

"So," House began, glancing round at his team assembled in front of him, "I think we all know why we're here." He grinned as he put on a fake French accent and continued, "there has been a murder, and I have deduced that one of us is the killer. We must figure out who before it's too late! The unfortunate victim was," he paused for dramatic effect, before spinning round and pointing at Chase, "Dr Robert Chase!"

"I'm standing right here!" Chase protested, bemused by House's strange little game.

"Can we get on with it please?" sighed Foreman, already tired of the diagnostician's bizarre sense of humour.

House rolled his eyes, returning to his normal voice as he replied, "you guys are so boring. Fine. So, differential diagnosis…"

"Why are we doing a differential if you already know what it is?" interrupted Foreman.

"Because I want to see if you can figure it out, or if I hired you for nothing. Anyway, as I was saying," he shot a sideways glare at the neurologist, "patient is a 44 year old male, history of leg pain caused by an arterial infarction followed by muscular necrosis. Manages symptoms using pain medication, until they suddenly flare dramatically and he requires several days' worth of intravenous morphine and an induced comatose state to prevent him from screaming the hospital down."

"Sounds like the result of severe overuse of the leg," Chase commented, "which we know is what happened. What is there to diagnose?"

"I'm not finished," House said dismissively. "Then, he prevents with severe muscle spasms, tremors and nausea, all within 48 hours."

"Vicodin withdrawal," reasoned Cameron, not understanding where House was going with this.

"And there lies the key to this whole problem. You see, you assumed as I did that those were symptoms of withdrawal, but can anyone see a flaw in that logic?"

There was a pause, before Foreman exclaimed, "the morphine. Vicodin withdrawal wouldn't present if the relevant time period coincided with morphine administration."

"Exactly!" House was practically giddy, eager to show off his genius in solving the puzzle. "So take away the Vicodin issue and what are we left with?" He was met with blank stares, so he rolled his wheelchair over to the whiteboard as he asked condescendingly, "do you need me to write this down?" He picked up a marker and shakily scrawled the symptoms across the board. "Spasms, tremors, nausea," he listed as he wrote, "then what?" Still silence, so he continued, "then the patient goes tachy and develops fever and delirium."

"Wait, delirium?" questioned Chase, knowing that that hadn't been brought up before.

House glared at him like he was an idiot. "How else does a relatively sane patient break his wrist on a bedframe? Add those to the list," he said as he did just that, "and it gives you…" He trailed off, trying to encourage his subordinates to finish the process off for him. "Come on, it's right under your nose! Literally, well, almost literally."

Another pause filled the room as the team tried to figure out House's riddle, before a voice piped up from the corner where Wilson had been standing silently, "it sounds like… hyperthyroidism."

"Bingo!" cried House in delight. "Gold star for you."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Cameron objected. "Hyperthyroidism would've shown up months ago. There's no way it would just appear like this."

"But it didn't, did it?" said Wilson slowly, moving closer to House as he spoke. "You said earlier that it was chronic, not acute. You realised these symptoms had come up before, so you knew which conditions to look at."

"Am I missing something?" Chase asked, also stepping closer to House. "If these are new symptoms then how can it be chronic?" House just raised an eyebrow at him, so he stood there confused for a moment before realisation dawned on him. "The Vicodin," he breathed. "If withdrawal and hyperthyroidism have the same symptoms…"

"Then the symptoms have been there the whole time, we just never noticed them," finished Cameron, also coming to understand House's diagnosis. "That's…"

"Genius, I know," House boasted. "Now, the two biggest causes of hyperthyroidism are Graves' disease and hyperfunctioning nodules. Test for elevated T-4 to confirm the diagnosis, then run antibody tests to check for Graves' and an ultrasound to check the nodules. Away you go, my minions!" Nobody moved, and instead he was given several perplexed looks, so he faked a gasp and added, "oh right, I'm the patient. Wilson, take me away!" The oncologist rolled his eyes slightly, but stepped forward nonetheless and began wheeling House off towards the imaging suite, leaving a somewhat stunned silence to fall over the diagnostics room.

The pair progressed slowly through the corridors, Wilson being rather unfamiliar with steering a wheelchair and trying not to crash into unsuspecting hospital personnel, House not helping matters by grabbing the wheel rims at random intervals in an attempt to mess with his friend. After a very taxing journey for Wilson, they arrived at the ultrasound ward, where a technician led them to an available room and assisted House onto the examination table. While they were waiting for the equipment to be calibrated, Cameron entered with a tool tray, having followed them to the exam room, and knelt down beside House to draw a blood sample.

"Ow," whined House as the needle was inserted into his vein. "That hurt."

"That tends to be what needles do," remarked Wilson sarcastically.

Cameron just ignored them as she continued her work, leaving the syringe in until she had extracted three vials worth of the crimson liquid from House's arm. She then withdrew it carefully and packed up her apparatus, commenting, "I'll drop these off at the lab," as she turned to exit.

"She's in a fun mood," joked House as soon as Cameron was out of earshot.

"Well, her boss did just admit that he is so dependent on Vicodin that he misread a serious medical condition as withdrawal," replied Wilson, slightly exasperated.

"Technically, I never said that. I may have… eluded to it, but I never said it."

"What difference does that make?"

"Gregory House does not admit to anything." He paused. "Unless it's a really good practical joke."

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes at House's attitude, but his expression changed as a thought popped into his head. "There's one thing you didn't explain," he began. "If the symptoms went undetected for so long, how come they suddenly got worse?"

"Ah, good question. I love answering these, they make me feel clever." He grinned, then continued on a more serious note. "In rare cases, hyperthyroidic patients can experience thyrotoxic crisis, a sudden worsening of symptoms with no apparent cause. Predominant signs of crisis include cardiac problems such as tachycardia and fibrillation, which we both know I had the pleasure of experiencing yesterday, and, less commonly, increased severity in muscle spasms. And hey presto, there's your diagnosis."

"Not bad," admitted Wilson, knowing better than to feed House's ego too much, but still having to acknowledge that his ability for lateral thinking was impressive.

There was a moment of silence, before House huffed out, "did the technician get _lost_?" The man had left the room several minutes earlier and had failed to return, despite having all the equipment he needed for the exam already in the room. House let out an exasperated sigh and said, "right, that's it." He leaned forward and rolled the ultrasound machine closer to the bed, then pressed the relevant buttons to turn it on and set it up for a scan. "I'm doing it myself."

"You can't do it yourself! You need someone to monitor the display, and you can't even see it from where you are."

"Fine. Then you can do it for me."

Knowing that it was only a simple procedure and that he was more than capable of performing it, Wilson didn't even bother to argue. "Fine," he agreed as he stepped in front of the machine, picking up the ultrasound gel and smearing some across House's neck. This caused the diagnostician to flinch and giggle slightly, making Wilson roll his eyes as he asked, "don't tell me you're ticklish?"

"I'm not," insisted House, but his reaction to the gel suggested otherwise.

"Right…" Wilson was not convinced, but he let it go and proceeded with the exam. He reached for the ultrasonic transducer and ran it across House's skin, adjusting the dials on the machine as he did so to focus the display properly. As he increased the force with which he was pressing down in order to get a clearer picture, House began to squirm slightly from the discomfort, but said nothing. He knew how this was supposed to be done and that Wilson was just doing what he had to, and, if he was being honest, it was probably a bit of revenge for the stunts he was pulling earlier with the wheelchair, so there was no use in protesting. Eventually, he felt the transducer being lifted from his throat and was relieved that it was over.

"Done," confirmed Wilson as he returned the transducer to its cradle and began processing the images. House sat up so that he could see the screen properly, and Wilson rotated it slightly to give him a clearer view. As Wilson began using the controls to navigate around the image, House grew impatient and knocked his friend's hands away, taking over the controls himself.

After several minutes of scanning the display, a small cluster of pixels caught House's eye. He quickly enlarged it and, following another minute of staring at it intently, a smirk began to spread across his face. "There," he indicated, lifting a finger to direct Wilson's gaze to the relevant part of the image. "Toxic adenoma. It's causing multinodular inflammation. And voila, there's your hyperthyroidism."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, impressed by House's skill for spotting the small details. "I'll schedule the surgery," he commented as he reached for his pager.

"Right, surgery," House said with a hint of worry in his voice, which threw Wilson off slightly.

"Something wrong?"

"Hmm? No, it's nothing. I'm just not crazy about getting bits cut out of me."

"House, it's a tumor. It's got to go."

"I know that. Just… make sure that's all they take."

"Of course I will," Wilson reassured, taking a step closer to his friend to comfort him. "You know I'll be there the whole time."

"Thank you," said House sincerely. Then, he added in a more playful tone, "alright, you've convinced me. I'll have the surgery. But if I wake up and my leg's not there, I'm feeding you to a pack of wolves."

 **And there's your diagnosis! Hopefully it fixes some of the medical anomalies in earlier chapters, plus I spent a good deal of time researching this topic, so it should all be pretty accurate. I'm not sure how many more chapters I'll add to this story, but there'll be at least one or two more, so tune in again soon!**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN – I'm back! Huge apologies for the long delay, I've been rather under the weather and it's given me even worse writer's block than usual. But after much anticipation, here's chapter 7 at last, I hope that you enjoy it.**

 **To KKBK2: Thank you so much! I'd hoped that it was all in character and I'm glad that you found it realistic. Hopefully you'll enjoy the ending.**

 **To OldSFfan: I suppose not, but this is a feels fic after all! At least the condition is something treatable.**

XXXXX

House couldn't deny that being the Head of Diagnostics certainly had its perks. While his adenoma was not immediately life-threatening, Cuddy nonetheless had managed to get his surgery scheduled for within 48 hours, anxious to have him return to work as soon as possible. Although he was not particularly looking forward to it, he was glad that at least it would be over soon, especially since Wilson was insisting that he remained in the inpatient ward until his hyperthyroidism was cured. House knew that the oncologist feared a relapse of his cardiac problems and wanted to keep him under observation, so he didn't argue the matter, realising it would be pointless, and instead tried to make the most of his hospital stay. He took pleasure in being a difficult patient, hassling the nurses as much as he could just to get a rise out of them, and found it particularly gratifying to annoy Wilson whenever he was in the room, a small punishment for delaying his return home. Wilson did his best to ignore House's frequent jibes, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response, but this only spurred House on until Wilson had no choice but to confront him.

"House, you do know I'm only here to help you?" Wilson sighed after yet another of House's mocking remarks.

"I know. It's just more fun this way," House replied smugly, leaning back in his bed as he smirked at his friend.

"I get it. You hate being here. You're miserable. But you don't have to make me miserable."

"I'm not miserable," objected House.

"Well whatever you are, you're not happy," observed Wilson. "House, what's going on?"

"Hmm, let me see. I'm bored, I'm in pain. I've been in the same room for almost a week. And I'm about to get surgery tomorrow to get a tumour cut out of my neck. Have I missed anything?"

"If you're worried about the surgery, you just need to tell me. Don't keep trying to play these games."

"What's there to be worried about? It's a straight-forward procedure, the surgeon's done it a thousand times."

"You don't even like the surgeon!"

"The man's an idiot, but he's a practiced idiot. He may be stupid enough not to agree with me when I say something's urgent, but he can take care of a simple adenoma."

"So if this isn't about the surgery, then what _is_ it about?"

House hesitated, unsure exactly what to say in response. He hadn't really figured out what was bothering him, he just kept having this nagging feeling that something was wrong. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I guess I'm just fed up of being stuck here." He paused before adding, "and I'm not looking forward to having to use that thing for the next eight weeks," gesturing to the wheelchair parked in the corner of his room as he spoke.

"It won't be that bad," reasoned Wilson. "You'll get to boss me around even more than usual."

House scoffed. "Cuddy won't let you take time off just to push my chair around."

"Then you can get one of your lackeys to do it."

"Yeah, there's no _way_ that could go wrong. Foreman and Chase would probably try to kill me, and being around Cameron for that long would make me want to kill myself."

Wilson sighed, feeling defeated by House's usual pessimism. "I'm sure you'll figure something out," was all he could offer. Then, anxious to change the topic, he added, "you've got just under 24 hours until your surgery. Given your medical history, I've prescribed a dose of heparin to prevent blood clots from breaking off and causing another infarction." He could see House visibly wince at the mention of an infarction, so he continued swiftly, not wanting to dwell on the subject. "The nurse should be in soon with the first treatment, we'll keep you on it for twelve hours just to be safe."

"Thanks," House replied absentmindedly, his thoughts beginning to focus on all the things that could go wrong during the procedure. His sharp mind could list every fault that could occur, and, while he wasn't one to panic, he felt the apprehension beginning to build in his chest. Wilson noticed immediately and stepped forward to lay a reassuring hand on House's arm.

"House, you know everything's going to be okay."

"I know." Wilson could tell that House was trying to project confidence while masking the uncertainty underneath, but he didn't want to press the issue, knowing that House would deny it if he did.

"Is there anything I can get you?" he asked instead.

"A hooker would be nice," House answered without even thinking. "Preferably one who doesn't speak English."

"House, I'm serious," Wilson admonished.

"But mom!" House's voice carried his signature playful whine, which he dropped when it was met by nothing but an unamused glare from Wilson. "You never let me have anything," he huffed, adding a small smirk at the end to lighten the tone.

"Maybe I should rephrase this," sighed Wilson. "Can I get you anything that Cuddy will allow into the building?"

"How about a coffee?"

"That I can do. I know how you take it, I'll be back in a minute." Wilson turned to the door, walking purposefully out of the room and down the hall towards the cafeteria, leaving silence to descend in his absence. The only noises remaining were the steady beeping of the pulse monitor, which Wilson had insisted House didn't remove ever since his episode of cardiac distress, and the distant chatter of voices from the neighbouring rooms. In his usual curious manner, House tried to eavesdrop on the conversations, listening out for any interesting medical topics to occupy his mind with, but they were too faint for him to hear. As he strained to catch anything that was being said, he was surprised when the first thing he could make out was the mention of his name, before he recognised the distinctive voices of Chase and Foreman, drawing closer by the minute. He peered through the doorway to see his subordinates striding down the corridor, and let out a frustrated sigh as he realised what they had come to do.

It wasn't long before the hiss of the door opening signalled the arrival of the two doctors into the room, and House immediately gave an audible groan. "You're here to stick needles into me, aren't you?" he complained.

"Only a couple," chuckled Foreman. "We need to do your pre-op blood workup."

"Why didn't Cuddy make Wilson do it? He's been here all day anyway, he might as well have made himself useful."

"Wilson's not in charge of your case," Chase explained. "Technically, you are. It was a diagnostics case, after all. But since you're also the patient, that puts us in charge." He gave House a grin that, while appearing innocent, still managed to convey his pleasure at being in control of his boss, albeit temporarily.

"Just remember that I can still fire you," House warned, quick to notice Chase's appreciation of his new power and squash it. The flash of panic in Chase's eyes caused House to be the one with a smile on his face, while his subordinate's disappeared completely. As the two men began trying to stare each other down, Foreman rolled his eyes and quickly stepped between them, eager to intervene before the situation escalated.

"Come on, let's just get the tests done," he reasoned, Chase hurriedly agreeing with him to avoid a confrontation with House. Removing the necessary instruments from the nurses' tray nearby, they swiftly and skilfully syphoned off several vials of House's blood, the diagnostician making sarcastic remarks throughout the entire process. Once they had finished, Foreman gathered the samples together as he announced, "we'll send these down to the lab and get them checked as quickly as possible. They haven't fully processed your first sample yet, but preliminary tests show elevated T-4 as we predicted."

"You mean as _I_ predicted," House corrected pedantically, unwilling as usual to share credit for his diagnosis.

"Goodbye, House." Foreman's reply was his usual mix of dismissive and mildly amused, and he afforded one last smile before carefully wrapping up the blood samples and whisking them off towards the lab, Chase hot on his heels as the pair exited the room.

As they started off down the hall, the two doctors soon struck up a conversation about their latest diagnostics case, causing them to nearly collide with Wilson in their distracted state as the other man was returning from the cafeteria. The oncologist exclaimed as he narrowly avoided spilling the entire cup of hot coffee he was carrying down his lab coat, prompting hasty apologies from Foreman and Chase, before the three men continued on their respective paths.

Wilson slid open the door to House's room and entered quietly, placing the cup beside House as he glanced over his shoulder at the retreating forms of his friend's subordinates. "What was that?" he enquired with one eyebrow raised, knowing that there could be multiple reasons behind the team's visit.

"Vampires," House quipped. "They needed to feed. I was helpless to stop them."

"Blood tests for your surgery tomorrow?" Having known House for so long, Wilson was improving his skills at interpreting the man's bizarre comments.

"You make it sound so boring."

"So, did they say anything… interesting?"

"Chase is secretly a ballerina. Oh, that's not what you meant. No, of course they didn't. There's nothing to say!"

"Actually there's plenty to say, you just don't want to talk about it."

As if to prove Wilson's point, House reached for his coffee and glared defiantly at his friend as he took a long gulp, ignoring the scalding sensation it brought to his mouth as he sipped it rapidly. Wilson folded him arms across his chest and stood with an exasperated expression on his face, waiting for House to finish trying to irritate him. Sometimes he felt like he was dealing with a child, and a very persistent one at that; he knew the best tactic would be to deny the reaction House craved, so he said nothing.

When House realised that his behaviour wasn't having its desired effect, he returned the coffee cup to the nightstand and held Wilson's stare for a moment with a confident gleam is his eyes, before replying, "fine. You want to talk, let's talk."

Wilson stuttered for a moment, not expecting House to give in so easily, then began, "alright. Why are you deflecting every question I ask you about the surgery?"

"Straight to the point. Good," House remarked with a subtle appreciative smile. "But you're missing the most important detail. In case you didn't notice, I'm not avoiding having this discussion. I'm avoiding having this discussion _with you_."

This took Wilson momentarily by surprise, and he furrowed his brow as he replied sceptically, "why?"

"Because you _want_ me to be worried so that you can do your whole caring thing. You _need_ my neediness, even if I don't have any, so that you can spend all your energy reassuring me and make yourself feel better about me being stuck here in the first place."

"You're saying I… _want_ you to be miserable?"

"I don't know what you want me to be, but you want me to be _something_. You keep asking me about the procedure in the hopes that eventually I'll admit some deep, dark insecurity, and I simply don't want to be your enabler. I'm trying to help you, Wilson, teaching you how to live without some broken soul for you to comfort." House's voice carried its usual sanctimonious undertones, and Wilson had to restrain himself from slapping his friend in an effort to remove the smug glint from his eyes.

There was a long silence as Wilson tried to figure out what to say, not even sure where to begin addressing the ludicrous claims House had made. Eventually, he settled for, "you're insane, House."

"Maybe. But I'm not wrong."

"Of course not. God forbid the great Gregory House could ever make a mistake. You know, not everyone has the same twisted outlook on relationships as you do. Just because you don't understand the concept of feeling concern for another human being doesn't mean that it always has to be some perverse form of self-gratification. I was trying to be a friend, House, but if you're going to be such an ass then I'm leaving. I've got work to do."

True to his word, Wilson turned his back on the diagnostician and stormed out of the room, leaving House to gape after him without having the chance to respond. He hadn't expected Wilson to be so sensitive on the matter, and began to regret raising the issue in such abrupt terms, admitting to himself that diplomacy may have been a better tack to employ with his friend. But he still stuck by his analysis of Wilson's behaviour, refusing as usual to accept true culpability for the disagreement, so he chose to pursue the only course of action that he considered suitable; he settled into his bed, picked up his cup of coffee and waited patiently for Wilson to come crawling back to him.

 **So tempers are beginning to get a little frayed in PPTH as a result of House's condition! I know this chapter was a bit more character- than plot-focussed, but I hope that you enjoyed having a bit of variety. I'll try and come back with an update soon.**

 **In the next chapter, will House and Wilson put their disagreement behind them in time for the surgery, or will House be left to face it alone? You'll have to wait and see!**


End file.
